


The Fall of the Sparrow

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Human breeding., M/M, Multi, Other, SF/Fantasy, Slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is an experiment, an AU, a first chapter of what may be a dead end. It's not erotica, exactly, though it earns its explicit rating. It's set in a fantasy world where slavery is a norm and breeding slaves a commonplace, and where slaves have NO chance of expecting their bodies be respected.It's also an attempt to play with the idea of having a body imposed on you. As in someone is capable of taking all your mind and memories out of your own body, and dumping them in whatever body they choose, including created bodies. It's an experimental attempt to see how writing that is different from the common kink trope of forced body modification, and how it's the same.Mycroft in this story is "our" Mycroft. "Greg" almost certainly is not. Or if he is, he's been there long enough to acclimatize pretty completely.





	The Fall of the Sparrow

He wakes in a body that is not his own. Not at all. Not in any sense.

His memories are intact, barring any memory that might explain why he has landed outside his own 6” 2” male frame… He knows who he is. He remembers his work. (He remembers all the secret codes. All the passwords. All the identification markers. Here he is in a foreign body and he could start WWIII with nothing more than computer access…)

He knows it the second he wakes. Before his eyes even open. The weight of his body is wrong. The shape. The balance as he rolls on the hard, thin futon mattress.

His eyes snap open; he struggles to sit, flailing. Before he’s even stable, he knows.

Small—too small: thin arms. The arms of a woman or a child. He looks again—young woman, he concludes, mind moving at light speed. Hands show age. Wrists are a woman’s wrists. Skin is older than a child, or a teen, but far from old-old.

Breasts.

That’s the second thing, after his hands and his arms. Breasts, and not minor ones. Deep, full breasts, hanging low, naked, with big brown nipples jutting firmly into cold air, chocolate cocoa aureolas crinkled in a sea of pale skin.

From what he can see, his new body is short and solid and heavy on the curves. Well padded, with a layer of fat, and plenty of scenery. The sort of body that tempts otherwise sane, responsible straight men into terms like “bootilicious” or “babe-alicious,” or “boob-alicious.” Or other unnecessary references to “delicious.”

He’s shaking. This is not his body.

This is not him.

He is Mycroft. Tall, ungainly, given to a slight layer of pudge he fights with endlessly. Ginger by birth, brunet by carefully maintained henna wash, balding by much resented genetic doom. (Damn Mummy, anyway: couldn’t she have given him her charm and energy, rather than her excess of brilliance and her paternally derived pattern baldness gene?)

He tries to stand. Realizes his position on a futon makes it impossible to swing his legs (very curvy legs) over the edge of the bed. Scrambles awkwardly up, until he stands, swaying.

He looks around the room.

It is little more than a cell. A nice cell: not so medieval as to have heaped straw rather than a worn, limp futon. A cell with a flush toilet rather than a bucket, a hole in the floor, or worst of all, no facilities at all. Bars across one wall, though, and over the small window set high up beyond his reach.

He studies his body, as best he can.

Yes. Female. No question. Yes. Curved beyond all reason. His overall sense of proportion suggests his new vehicle is short. His stomach is neither fat nor flat, but curved like a graceful pear, with below it a vigorous, untamed brush of near-black pubic hair. A quick check indicates similarly hirsute arm pits. He reaches up and finds hair in tumbling, coarse curls—not the soft fleece of a black person, but the squiggly corkscrew mayhem of a European of some lineage. He tugs out a hair, not even bothering to wince, and looks.

Dark brown. Very little red in the undertone. His skin is tawny fair, like Greg Lestrade’s: skin that no doubt tans in seconds, and never burns.

He wonders about his face. His eyes. Brown? Blue? Green? Hazel?

From the little he’s seen so far, any could be true.

He is, he notes, naked. His bed, he notes, has no sheets.

His collar, he notes, is rather tight.

Collar.

He closes his eyes, swaying.

God may be in his heaven—but all is absolutely not right in Mycroft’s world.

A voice sounds. He can’t tell if it’s mental, or physical. He just knows he hears it.

“You are mine. I can place you in any body—real or imagined. I can use you in any way I like. I can destroy you. Remake you. Alter you. Do not think of escaping. I will bring you back from death itself. If you anger me you will be reborn as a gutter whore for the next thousand incarnations, giving blow jobs to the lepers and beggars, six men for a minim. If you make me really angry, you will be reborn as a brood bitch producing training puppies for the real dogs to slaughter. Do you understand me?”

Mycroft shuddered. His gorge rose. He was brilliant, and powerful, and educated, and he had no idea how to defend himself against this.

He nodded.

“Good. Your owner will be by to collect you later today. I suggest you show your worth quickly. He’s not a patient man.”

And then there was nothing but the empty cell and the collar around his neck and the body that was not his own and the rumbling of an empty stomach and no food or drink in sight.

He had never been so afraid in all his life.

He could come up with explanations, of course. Hallucination. Hypnotism. Some kind of cross-dimensional travel in which the mind rather than the body shifted location, and hosted itself in some unsuspecting stranger.

He probed his mind for any additional person who might be along for the ride. If he had a prior self, she was not present or accounted for. So near as he could determine, there was only Mycroft Holmes at home in this new head…and all of Mycroft’s memories and information seemed to arrived intact. Failing to locate an “original owner,” he contemplated his new body, considering every detail he could.

Even if his face proved ugly, his body was the sort straight men seemed to appreciate. Lesbian women, for that matter. It was young-ish. Appeared healthy. Accepted his presence. Was the legal property of owner or owners unknown. Had not a chance in hell of escaping from this cell at this time.

Mycroft shivered and backed himself up to the wall, wrapping his arms around himself, cringing at the feel of plump breasts under his wrists and forearms.

Who was he, now? Where was he? What came next?

What came next was the heavy sound of footsteps approaching from a distance. The echoes suggested a long corridor lay out of sight of his cell. Soon two men came around the corner: a massive guard complete with a dagger and breastplate and helmet, and a man in green robes of some sort whose familiar face nearly made him faint.

“Inspector Lestrade!”

Brown eyes blinked, and Lestrade frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I’m so glad to see you.”

Then Mycroft’s hopes dissolved. There was no recognition—not of Mycroft, which only stood to reason: Greg Lestrade had no knowledge of this woman. Certainly didn’t know her as Mycroft. But this man didn’t respond as though he knew any “Inspector Lestrade.”

“Who are you?” Damn. His voice was shaking.

Familiar features frowned at him. “Griekar Strat.” Then, with dour humor, “Your owner.”

“Ah.”

“Ah-indeed.” He turned to the guard. “Collar’s secure?”

“Solid as welding can make it, sir.”

“Good. Pin her and I’ll put her on her lead.”

Before Mycroft really understood the situation, the guard had come in and pinned her against the far wall of the cell, and Griekar Strat had locked a chain to her collar, at the nape of her neck.

“Oi. Come along, then, girl,” he said, and tugged hard enough to make her tumble once the guard let go. “Long walk home and I’ve got business on the way.”

“I have a name,” Mycroft snapped.

Greikar Strat turned and looked at her, half-puzzled, half-amused. After a moment he said, simply, “No, you don’t, girl. Not unless I decide you do. Now get that round butt in motion. If I miss my appointment with the Legate I’ll give you to the stud stable now, and let them fuck you till you drop, instead of bothering to assess you first.”

And he turned and walked away, dragging her behind him like an untrained puppy or a surly cat.

Mycroft attempted to be the surly cat for at least a few minutes, but was reduced to the whining, overwhelmed pup before they even left the building the cell had been in.

The streets of the town were a muddle of what, to Mycroft’s eyes, seemed to be overlapping eras. Like Victorian England, he thought, with people on foot, on horseback, on steam vehicles, and primitive combustion-driven cars. There were electric lights in one storefront, but bundled, tar-covered torches on the walls of others. It appeared to be a time of rapid technological change.

Some of the technology completely baffled him… Level sleds that seemed to move an inch above the ground, sliding on air. A fountain that seemed to be a globule of water floating weightless in the center of a marble plaza. Women came up with pitchers and seemed to scoop the water out of the shimmering globe.

Music poured out of the sky, with no sign of speakers to be seen anywhere.

Not that Mycroft had much chance to see anything. He was too busy stumbling behind his owner, trying not to stub his toes, lose his balance in this new body, or accidentally fall far enough behind to choke himself.

Herself.

He didn’t feel like he knew any more.

He felt even less sure when his owner stopped at a pastry shop barely the size of a cupboard set into the walls of a larger building. He ordered a drink and two pastries he called “kaniman.” As he waited for the order a lay-about holding up the wall and not much more said, “Oi—you. Bandran. That girl yours?”

“Aye. New blood for the broodery if all goes well.”

“Nice conformation for that. Picked well.”

“Aye. Want to check her out?” Strat had the amused expression and tones of a man with a new car to show off—and a willing admirer to show it off to. “Check the jugs.”

“Jugs are nice, but her teats are the best. Fat as a peanut.”

“Fatter. Here—come give one a suck.” Strat approached Mycroft—and a second later had him—her—caught up, arms wrapped in a cinch of the brass chain, one arm around her neck holding her secure. The idler came up and grabbed her breast, pulling it upward, as he leaned down and sucked it into his mouth. He played with it, tongue teasing, teeth nipping lightly.

To Mycroft’s horror his—her—the body reacted. He felt the nipple rouse, a thrill that possessed him. It grew fatter. Meanwhile a jolt of hungry need moved like a lightning bolt through his belly to his crotch, setting up a complicated set of feelings, none welcome to Mycroft, but all apparently quite welcome to his body.

“Check her pussy,” Strat said. “Wet already, I’m betting. Easy breeder.”

The stranger reached down and inserted a finger between the folds of Mycroft’s crotch. It teased at the top of the folds, finding flesh even more quickly aroused than the nipple he still suckled.

Mycroft whined, desperate.

“Hark at her,” Strat said. “Prime brood bitch.”

“What did you pay for her?” the stranger asked, letting go of her nipple with his mouth only to pinch it hard between his free thumb and forefinger, rolling it hard and giving it a twist. His free hand continued to diddle her clitoris.

“Got her at a savings. Her breeder is moving to Adrith. He decided to sell off all but the very youngest and the very best of his stock. Culled out gems like this one he’d normally have kept and bred a time or two, to get a sense of her promise. But he didn’t want to deal with the transport of any but his very best, or the young ones who’d serve him longest. So this one went for ten draeks.”

The stranger whistled. “Deal! Lucky you? Going to breed her yourself?”

“Haven’t decided. Not my normal preference. A wise man beds a wise man, as they say in Travak. But I’ve a thought to sons, and it’s cheaper to father sons on good brood stock than to marry a girl of good family.”

“Better odds of healthy offspring as well. Good families tend to overbreed.”

“There is that.” Strat tugged the chain, pulling Mycroft free of the tormenting hands of the stranger. “Any son this one gives me will be short—but look at the bone! Look at the balance. A son out of her womb would be strong as an ox and dainty as a dancer.”

“A gazelle, she is,” the stranger agreed, and then, with gloating pleasure, licked the hand that had been up Mycroft’s crotch. “Juiciest twat I’ve tweaked in decades, too. And sweet—she tastes of the salt wells at Har-by-Sea. A rare vintage, this one.”

“Still prefer the suck of a cock to the soak of a twat.”

“Each to his own,” the stranger said…and they parted, Strat with his pastries and his clay cup of brew held in one hand, the other jerking Mycroft’s chain behind him.

Mycroft, staggered along, so shattered he barely noticed anything. He was too trapped in the sensation of his body taking over: alive with the tug of the strange man’s mouth on his nipple, the fingers pinching and rolling, the hand up his cunt…and his cunt growing drenched and wet, his body on fire. He’d barely managed not to fall to his knees and beg to be used…

“Take me back” he thought frantically at the voice that had been in his head. “Please. Take me back. Take me home. I’m afraid. I don’t want this.”

The voice failed to answer.

Mycroft didn’t even notice the tears that ran down his face the rest of the way to his owner’s meeting with the Legate…and then he only noticed because his new owner did, wiping the rippled, tracked mess with the heel of his hand, and grumbling that she had no cause to carry on like a maiden daughter of the People. “Not like they’d use you for anything but a temple whore or an altar sacrifice, even if you were of the blood,” he added. “They like their girls tall and slim. You’ve got an arse round as a zebra, just begging for stripes.” He handed her a bottle of water. “Here. Drink up and keep quiet. I’ve got business to do.” And with that he dragged her to a hitching post next to an armed soldier of some sort. He chained her to the post and handed the guard a small stack of coins.

“She’s brood stock,” he said, “and I have no use for a bastard calf from her. Make sure none of the locals think to take her for a ride while I’m busy.”

And with that he strode away.


End file.
